Cold Rips Through Me
by strangecandy
Summary: The events of Harry's 5th year take their toll, in more ways than one. He stops for a moment, just to reflect. *One Shot*


Title: Cold. Rips. Through. Me.

Author: strangecandy

Rating: PG

Genre: Angst

Warnings: graphic description, nothing too horrible

Summary: After the events of his sixth year a Hogwarts, Harry takes a little time out to think back.

Disclaimer: I am making no profit from this story. I do not own the Harry Potter series. *makes other disclaiming noises*

Potentially Important Notes: This fic contains slight OotP spoilers. The disjointed sentence structure was intentional. These are Harry's thoughts, and I don't know if anyone's thoughts are actually always smooth and flowing, with perfect grammar. Well, I'm judging it by my thought process anyways. I don't know about what other people do.

  


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_Cold._

  


Coldness is all I ever seem to feel anymore. I guess feeling cold is preferable to not feeling anything at all, or maybe it isn't. I really wouldn't know, seeing as how I've never had much experience at feeling many other emotions. I guess feeling cold is preferable to the rage, the tears, the anguish, all of those emotions. I can still feel them though, simmering just below the surface of my skin.

Sometimes, I want to take my fingers, and dig, and keep digging until I am able to remove all of them. They eat me up, like some sort of parasite.

Thankfully though, I am cold, and the cold keeps them from eating me alive, leaving nothing but a hollow shell, and keeps me from digging.

Maybe the cold is a good thing.

  


_Rips._

  


By the time I was five, I was already decent at mending, although I'm not sure why Aunt Petunia had me do it. It's not like they actually wore the newly fixed clothing. Maybe it was just a way to get me out of her hair. I really couldn't say. I've never had that much experience with people. Even now, after all my years at Hogwarts, I'm still not sure what lies just below the surface of a person, sometimes not even myself.

Yes, people make no sense to me.

Well, anyways, I am decent at mending. One day, I found a hole in my father's invisibility cloak. It was just after Cedric died. I broke down and cried again, even though I thought all my tears had been spent. I felt like the tears would never stop, just like the last time I cried, but they did. They always do. Tears are funny like that. I guess, if they never stopped, a person would just shrivel up, become nothing more than a husk.

I got out my needle and thread, then patched it up. It looked as good as new.

Right after, well, right after _he_ died. It's funny, I can't bring myself to even mention his name anymore. If I do, the cold may go away, and I don't want, no, I can't release the cold.

Right after he died, I noticed another hole in the invisibility cloak. On closer inspection, I found it was the exact same hole, only now, it was bigger. My fix for the whole at first had looked perfect, though the inside of the seam was a bit messy. I had ensured though, that it looked perfect, even more so than with the Dursley's mendings I had done. I sat there for a good hour, making sure it looked perfect.

It came loose though.

I didn't cry. The cold wouldn't allow it.

I sat down again, and more carefully than before, stitched it back together. This time, it would look perfect, both on the inside and out. I would make sure of that.

Once I finish, I carefully examine the results.

No, no one would ever be able to tell that the rip was ever there.

  


_Through._

  


I told Professor Dumbledore that I was finished, I was through being the savior of the wizarding world, and I meant it, every single word. My previous adventures had worn it ragged. I couldn't risk the hole in my cloak opening again.

All the tasks I had performed, living through them all, and he still felt that he could not tell me the truth.

He says he cared to much, and I even witnessed him cry. His tears didn't break through the cold though.

I am through with emotions, all I need is the cold.

  


_Me._

  


I wonder who I am, Harry Potter. Not 'The Boy Who Lived,' not the 'Savior of the Wizarding World,' just Harry. I did not ask for this lot in life, it was thrust upon me. Sometimes, I want to curl up in a ball under my cloak and just disappear. Once I came out, I would emerge a new person. One free of obligation, tons of baggage, and a connection to an evil wizard.

I was marked though, and nothing can change that.

I get out my cloak, and I do just that. It can't hurt to pretend for a while.

I curl up into a ball, and pretend that once I come out, I really will become that entirely different person. I can't focus on that pleasant thought for too long though. I never can. 

There's always a voice in the back of my mind, always reminding me that I am marked. That it is my destiny, and there is no escaping it. No matter how I try to drown it out, the voice always comes through. 

Then comes the guilt. 

I see Hermione, Ron, all the Weasley's, my fellow Gryffindor's, all the rest of my peers at Hogwarts, my professors, everyone around me. I see all their faces. I wonder if I would be able to leave them to a world without a savior, without the other half of a prophecy, and I almost think I can.

Yes, I know I can. Nothing is set in stone. The prophecy did not tell whether or not I would defeat Voldemort. Who would be left to fight after I die? I'm fairly certain that I will be the one destroyed, because I cannot compete with Voldemort's power, I don't care what the prophecy says. I don't have any special powers, but then... I stop, and more faces come to mind.

I see the countless number of people murdered by Voldemort. I see my parents, the Longbottom's, Cedric, and... Sirius. Especially my parents and Sirius, and I feel guilty for allowing these sort of thoughts into my head. They gave up their lives so that I could live, and how do I repay them? 

It is my duty, my destiny.

I get up with the intention of throwing off the cloak, doing away with the childish nonsense and make believe that have sustained me. I don't need them, because the cold is always there, surrounding me, seeping into me, always there for me, and as I reach for the tie of the cloak, I notice something. The hole has come undone again, and I cry.

  


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Final Note: Sorry for the overly obvious metaphor. I had a really tough time trying to come up with anything else to use as a mirror for Harry's emotions.


End file.
